


Center of Balance

by J (j_writes)



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-25
Updated: 2011-07-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:31:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_writes/pseuds/J
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>five mutants Charles Xavier never met at age 12, and one he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Center of Balance

"I'm not afraid of you," Charles said aloud to his room. The thoughts that answered him were in a language he didn't know, but he understood enough of the images to realize that the same wasn't true for whoever was hiding in the darkness.

"It's all right," he said, "I'm not going to hurt you." He peered into the space at the foot of his bed, trying to project the idea of safety and reassurance as he fumbled next to him for the lamp. The light was harsh, and he squinted against it, meeting the startled gaze of a boy smaller than him, who looked like nothing so much as one of the demons in one of his mother's books. "Hello," he said. "You're a long way from home."

There was a confused jumble of thoughts that leapt from place to place with dizzying swiftness until Charles had to pull his mind away from the other boy's and collect himself. "You're lost," he said. Then he played over the thoughts again. "No," he realized, "you're running away."

The boy blinked, touching his forehead, and Charles reached out for him again. He felt the boy thinking his own thoughts back at him, about the pictures he had seen that looked like this, red demons with pointed tails, glowing eyes. The thoughts merged with the boy's own, becoming confused, faster, angry men looming towards him, fire, blood, thoughts the boy skated over quickly and inexpertly, trying to explain himself.

"No," Charles said, "it won't be like that here. I'm not afraid of you. You surprised me, is all." He thought about it for a moment, and his face split into a grin. "Nobody's ever done that before." He reached for the boy, who pulled away automatically, then hesitated and reached back, letting Charles take his hand.

Charles closed his eyes and concentrated, and when he opened them again, there was a normal looking boy crouched there in front of him, with curling black hair and dark eyes, who let out a gasp when he looked down at himself.

"It's only an illusion," Charles told him, trying to project the image of the boy putting on a human suit. "I can't keep it up, if you travel too far. But you can stay here, and I'll keep you hidden for as long as you want."

" _Da_ ," the boy said with feeling, and for just a moment, Charles got a clear picture of what the boy's mind interpreted as _forever_.  
______________

"Charles, I'd like you to meet my friend." Time and again, those words, always with the undercurrent of _be polite, say the right thing, prove that I have raised you well._

And every time, he would take the broad hand offered to him and learn everything in a second that it would take his mother the next month, six months, year to find out. A shake of the hand, a vague polite greeting, and then he'd escape as quickly as he could, back to his room and his books.

"Hello, Charles." This one crouched down until he was eye level, intent on him in a way they never were. He met Charles's gaze and held it, and instead of the usual rush of memories and immediate thoughts, Charles got nothing but a wall of fire, rushing at him, feeling as if it was singing the corners of his own mind until he closed himself off with every ounce of strength he had. His hand shook as he pulled it away, and he didn't manage the vague polite greeting, could barely even manage to stay on his feet as the man smiled, broad and chilling. "My name is Herr Schmidt. Your mother has told me _so much_ about you."  
______________

They lost track of how much time they spent there in the kitchen that first night, standing in front of the fridge, then sitting on the floor, cross-legged across from each other, everything forgotten as they stared into each other's eyes and learned everything the other had ever known.

They slept on either side of the same wall, and shared their dreams.

They grew, they learned. They fell in love and fell out of love, fell into people's beds and climbed back out again. They went to university, drank too much, and pulled each other out of gutters when they needed it.

By the time Moira MacTaggart came looking for Professor Charles Xavier, there was no longer any such person. Any lines that had ever existed between himself and his twin Emma had long since faded into insignificance.  
_______________

"Do you need bandages too?"

There was a clatter as a jar hit the floor, and the thief froze by the window, glaring into the dark corner where Charles stood. Charles reached out and kicked it back towards him. "You look hurt," he said, not mentioning that he could feel every bruise, every ache, every searing cut still healing into the man's skin. "I can go to the medicine cabinet, get you some – "

"I don't need anything, kid," the man snarled.

"Clearly," Charles said, looking at his arms full of food. He shrugged. "Good luck in Canada," he offered, and padded back upstairs to bed.  
______________

Thoughts echoed against the walls of a ship like marbles in a tin can. Charles slept every night with his hands pressed to his ears, and it did no good. He tried to turn his thoughts to the sea, the curling waves, the gentle rocking, and instead all he heard were the fears of those who fled the war, the reaching out of those who had left loved ones behind, the seasickness and the exhaustion and the turmoil.

He faked seasickness so he could stay on deck, begging his mother for fresh air. It didn't help much, but at least with a sky above, there was someplace for thoughts to escape to.

There was a spot he customarily took, against the rail, book clutched in his hand, although he rarely could gather his thoughts enough to read. Seven decks below that very spot, in the cargo hold, there was a space hollowed out of the hull of the ship. Small, dim, cramped, and also containing a boy with a book. Charles would follow along as he read, the words gradually gaining meaning as he reread the book again and again, and by the last day of the voyage, as the rest of the passengers were gathered at the rail, staring up at the majestic metal figure that stood guard over their passage, he was finally able to put a thought to words and send it down to the belly of the ship.

 _I know you are there,_ he thought in German, _and I know what you are running from._ He clutched the cool metal of the rail under his fingers as he continued. _You are not alone, Erik._  
______________

"Charles." He woke to a rough hand against his cheek and nearly cried out before he realized that his voice was already hoarse, and that the eyes looking down at him full of tears and concern were only Raven's. "Charles? Oh, thank goodness." She flung her arms around him, burying her face in his neck and clinging onto him for a moment before pulling back and glaring. "You _scared_ me," she said reproachfully.

"I'm sorry," he told her, and pushed himself up against the headboard. "It was just a dream."

She bit her lip. " _My_ dream," she said. "I think you got stuck in it." She shivered, grabbing the edge of his blanket and wrapping it around herself. "I woke up, and I could – " she waved a hand in the way she had of expressing what he could do, " _hear_ you from my room."

He frowned. "I hope mother couldn't," he said.

Raven made a face. "I don't think she's hearing much of anything right now," she said.

Charles flushed, and he changed the subject quickly. "Do you dream like that often?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Sometimes." She curled up on herself. "I'm sorry I give you nightmares." There was a brief flash in her mind of a list of things she'd need to pack up to take with her if she had to run, and he reached out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist, pale against the blue skin there.

"No," he said aloud, his mind filling in the blanks of _please don't leave me,_ and _there's never been a time when someone wasn't giving me nightmares_. She frowned at that, but her thoughts turned from running away, which he counted as a victory.

She propped her chin on her hands and looked at him seriously. "You can read minds," she said. "What do you have to be afraid of?"

He looked back just as seriously. "Everything," he told her.

She frowned, then brightened. "Here," she said. "What if you had something to protect you?" Her skin rippled, and in moments, she was replaced by a frankly terrifying monster perched at the end of his bed.

He laughed, but when he felt that she was entirely sincere, he made a show of settling back down under the covers. "I think maybe that would make me feel a lot better," he told her.

He fell back asleep with the steady weight of her keeping his feet warm, and when he woke in the morning, it was to a monster curled up and snoring at the end of the bed, sleeping dreamlessly.


End file.
